


my world, my true

by Sinope



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, Secret Avengers (2013), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Dog Cops, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fanboy Phil Coulson, M/M, Memory Alteration, Pineapple and Coconut Scones, Slow Build, Soul Bond, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-03-09
Packaged: 2017-12-04 17:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint prefers to wear gloves, SHIELD is not the DMV, Coulson's apron is not frilly, and scones pave the way to a man's heart -- but time and a soulbond don't hurt, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my world, my true

**Author's Note:**

> Beyond the soulbonding AU aspects, this takes place in a fusion of movie Avengers and _Secret Avengers_ , with a little of the _Hawkeye_ comics thrown in. The main thing to know is that in this universe, Clint Barton is an Avenger before he starts working for SHIELD, not the other way around. The scene where Coulson recruits him is [available online here](http://www.comicbookmovie.com/fansites/JoshWildingNewsAndReviews/news/?a=73932), and I suggest reading it before reading this fic, though it's not mandatory.
> 
> Warnings: The core premise of Secret Avengers has to do with memory modification. While this fic does not contain any sexual situations affected by mind control, the memory modification aspects may be troubling for some; use your own discretion. Additionally, contains allusions to past child abuse.

_i fear_  
 _no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want_  
 _no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)_  
 _and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant_  
 _and whatever a sun will always sing is you_

\- from "i carry your heart with me" by e.e. cummings

 

...

 

The only thing that Clint remembered from his first handshake with Phil Coulson was the look in his eyes when he said, _I'm a great admirer of your work_. The words could easily have been rote, even trite, but Coulson looked genuine -- and a shade embarrassed by his genuineness. He looked like he didn't want Clint to know just how much of an "admirer" he was.

At the time, the observation struck Clint, then got washed away in the conversation and negotiations that followed. He didn't stop to consider its implications until much, much later.

But the other pertinent fact about that handshake didn't even register on Clint's radar at the time. It was this: Clint was wearing his full gloves.

 

...

 

The gloves were Clint's favorite part about the uniform. Sure, a few people still wore them, out in the normal world, but they tended to garner odd looks. _What sane, modern person wouldn't want to find their soulmate?_ , people said. _The only people who still wear gloves are religious nuts, scared that their Bondmate might be someone outside their narrow horizons._ Clint could wear gloves through the winter easily enough, but once short-sleeve weather came around, gloves would attract the kind of questions that he didn't care to discuss.

His uniform was a different story. Hell, he walked around in skintight leather with a giant purple swoosh on his chest. Gloves blended right in -- and they meant that Clint didn't have to hesitate before helping a civilian victim to her feet, didn't have to worry that the skin-to-skin contact would spark the inescapable magic of the Bond.

See, soulmates were great and all, if that was what you wanted: someone to love you unconditionally, to find your presence their sole joy. Someone who'd stand by you faithfully, even when you squandered their money on booze and took out your drunken frustrations on your two little boys.

As for Clint, he was pretty damn certain that he preferred to opt out.

 

...

 

"I can't believe that we have to be saddled with some suit," Clint grumbled to Natasha on their way out of the meeting.

Natasha shrugged. "They say that he's a favorite of SHIELD's acting Director. I doubt he made it there by being good at paperwork." Which was her way of saying, _I'm as annoyed as you, but let's play nice for now._

"Paperwork and baking, maybe." Because yeah, the man looked physically in shape, like any decent spook, but he didn't radiate the kind of aura that made Clint want him at his back in a firefight.

Natasha smirked. "You _were_ having a bit of a moment with those scones. I can give you some alone time with the leftovers."

Clint glared, but he didn't let go of the ziploc bag, either.

"SHIELD wants this endeavor to succeed as much as we do," Natasha said finally. "Even if the suit doesn't contribute much, he'll know how to stay out of our way."

"He'd better." Clint would put up with him, sure, but he still didn't trust Coulson to be more than dead weight.

 

...

 

Natasha was right: Coulson knew how to stay out of their way.

He handed out mission briefings with an awkward smile, then settled into an aura of calm authority once he started talking to the group.

A half hour into the briefing, Clint raised his hand, like a kid in a classroom. "So while we're busy kicking ass, what will you be doing?" (And yeah, he had a note of sarcasm in his voice. So sue him.)

"Backup and logistics," Coulson said smoothly.

"So basically, if all goes well, we won't even need you?"

"Exactly."

Clint hadn't even been consciously trying to rile him, but Coulson was so completely unruffled that Clint resolved, then and there, that he _would_ find a way to get under his skin. Nobody could be that calm all the time.

 

...

 

As it turned out, Coulson was right; they didn't end up needing him. At the end of the op, he shook everyone's hands and thanked them for their good work.

Clint grasped Coulson's hand tightly with his own gloved fist, then pulled him close, as though to impart a secret message. He could feel Coulson's muscles tense at the movement, but the man held very still.

"Next time," Clint began quietly, and paused to draw out the portentous moment. "Next time, can you make the scones blueberry?"

Coulson's lips pressed against each other thinly, but his expression didn't twitch otherwise.

 

...

 

There were blueberry scones waiting at the briefing for their next op. Clint bit into one, savored the bright pop of fruit and the tender crumb, and gave Coulson a big grinning thumbs-up.

 

...

 

For their third op with Coulson, Clint and Natasha went undercover as a Bonded couple, which meant hands all over each other. It wasn't Clint's first time, acting out the Bond; he'd spent enough time watching it to do a good imitation. People touched their soulmates like they sank into a cozy chair, with a loosening of tension and an eyelash-flutter of involuntary pleasure. They sought each others' hands without even looking, without conscious awareness. They let down their guards.

It created a great cover -- people's eyes skipped over young Bonded couples, as though even outsiders' gazes constituted an intrusion -- but it still made Clint's skin crawl.

At the end of the op, Coulson asked Clint to stay after the debrief. "I'll try not to ask you to do that again," he said without preamble, as soon as they were alone.

"You're -- what? I did fine."

Coulson inclined his head. "You did. I expected nothing less. But you were uncomfortable, and I'll try to avoid that stratagem in the future. I just thought you might ... appreciate knowing."

Clint's eyes narrowed, but any response caught in his throat. He was a damn good actor, and he knew it. But Coulson had noticed anyway, which meant that the suit might be good for more than scones and mission briefings -- even if Clint did feel a tad patronized at the moment. "It's the right stratagem for some ops," he said. "I'll do what needs doing."

"I know." Coulson regarded Clint for a long moment. "You're everything I thought you would be."

"Thanks, I guess?" Clint shifted awkwardly, wondering what you said to a statement like that. He quirked a smile more confident than he felt. "I bet I can figure out how to surprise you at some point."

"I bet you can," Coulson responded, expression still flat. "I'll look forward to it."

Clint figured that he could use that as his cue to escape.

 

...

 

Their fifth op was when everything went to hell. Clint and Natasha got made, cut off from the rest of the team, and cornered in a hotel ballroom, using shitty plywood tables to try to hide from the semi-automatics and return a few shots themselves. Clint had almost forgotten about Coulson until he heard that calm, certain voice on his comm saying, " _On my way._ "

A few minutes of frantic shooting later -- Clint was starting to think they'd had a 10-for-1 special at Mercenaries-R-Us -- the rattle of bullets paused, just before a loud, shattering crash sounded. Clint poked his head cautiously around the side of an overturned podium, and he took in three important observations.

First, the enormous chandelier that had hung above the ballroom now lay on its floor in a pile of broken glass and unconscious mercenaries.

Second, the remaining mercenaries had shifted their focus to Coulson, leaving Clint and Natasha wide open.

Third, Coulson was a _fucking badass_. Using the body of one mercenary as a shield, he rapidly made his way through the rest of the group, simultaneously knocking out the nearby mercs and shooting off the ones he couldn't reach.

A full two seconds passed before Clint shook off his surprise, aimed his next arrow, and began to help Coulson out. Between his bow, Natasha's guns, and Coulson's ruthless ass-kicking, they had the room subdued in no time.

"God," Coulson muttered as they met him near the doorway, "the paperwork for this is going to be a nightmare." He was breathing more swiftly and wore a thin sheen of sweat, but he sounded otherwise unaffected. Then he met Clint and Natasha's eyes. "There are more hostiles on the way. We need to get out of here now."

"Yes, sir," Clint said with full sincerity, and he lowered his bow and headed out, filing after Natasha. He might be an arrogant prick, but he was willing to admit when --

\-- and then Coulson yelled, "Down!", grabbed Clint by the elbow, and threw both of them bodily to the floor, a split second before a bullet shot right where Clint's head had been.

Somewhere above them, Natasha was whirling around and shooting the wounded mercenary who'd tried to get in a parting shot. "Are you hurt?" she demanded, scrambling to kneel beside Clint, but her voice sounded distant, disconnected from reality.

Reality was Coulson's hand around Clint's elbow, skin against bare skin.

Reality was every cell in Clint's body aligning like metal filings, all pointed toward the true north that was Coulson's body.

"Oh," Clint said, barely audible. "So that's what the Bond feels like." Some surreal part of him felt like laughing; his characterization would be so much better, now that he'd experienced it himself.

The rest of him felt like he wanted to break down and sob like a little child. He'd never felt this kind of deep joy, broader and purer and more addictive than any orgasm, any drug high. He'd never looked into someone's eyes, the way he was looking into Coulson's, and known without a trace of doubt that he could trust him with anything. With everything.

A long, fierce stream of Russian expletives interrupted his thoughts. Natasha had crouched next to them, and her eyes darted back and forth between them, wide with panic and something like pity. She finally switched into English. "Get up, now. Deal with this later. We need to move." She grabbed each of them with one hand, pulled them up, and led them out the door.

The demands of haste finally overrode the haze that had been smothering Clint, and he tugged his elbow free of Coulson's grasp, biting down a whimper at the immediate sense of loss. The two of them hurried through the hotel's corridors, fast on Natasha's heels, until they'd reached the main lobby, which bustled with guests.

Natasha tugged the three of them into a quiet alcove and shot them both hard looks. Coulson still hadn't said a word. "This is how this is going to work," she said. "Coulson, you're going to get back to the van and do coordination. Hawkeye, you're coming with me to assist Team B. You'll deal with this complication later. Got it?"

Coulson closed his eyes for a long moment, but when he reopened them, his gaze was sharp. "Got it. You're cleared to join Team B, Black Widow. Hawkeye, --" He paused, clearly considering and discarding several comments. "Hawkeye, you're with her," he said at last.

Clint searched Coulson's face, looking for some hint of his feelings, but he found nothing. Just the familiar, calm mask. _Maybe it's not even a mask,_ a traitorous voice in him suggested. _Maybe your soulmate's nothing but an efficient spook._ The thought felt like opening the latch of Pandora's box, and it unleashed all the doubts he'd had, all the reasons that he'd avoided skin contact in the first place. The Bond clouded your judgment; it made you do stupid shit; it overrode your personality. The reminder felt like waking up from a dream.

The thing about dreams was that sometimes they were nice. Sometimes you wished you didn't have to leave them. But in the end, Clint would always prefer reality.

He nodded once at Coulson, perfunctorily, and followed Natasha away.

 

...

 

Somehow, Clint and Coulson made it through the rest of the trainwreck of an op without touching each other. The problem wasn't even logistical; Clint had gone until that day without a touch. The problem was that some primal part of him craved Coulson's skin, craved it more fiercely than Clint had ever wanted anything in his life.

Maybe Coulson felt the same craving, too. Clint couldn't tell.

Natasha kept eyeing the two of them through the debriefing, but she clearly hadn't told anyone else, because nobody gave them a second glance when Coulson said, at the end, "Hawkeye. A word with you."

"Good luck," she mouthed at Clint on her way out of the room. Within a few moments, the two of them were alone.

Clint didn't move from his seat. He wanted to touch Coulson -- God, he wanted to -- but the very strength of that desire terrified him, because it wasn't his own. So he crossed his arms and rested his elbows on the conference table, and he let its glossy veneer ground him in reality. "What's up, Agent?" he asked, aiming for light-hearted and failing entirely.

Coulson didn't move any closer, either, and he kept his gaze focused on a spot somewhere beyond Clint's left shoulder. "We should talk about what happened," he said.

"All right," Clint shrugged. "Talk."

Coulson's lips pressed together. He inhaled, then exhaled through his nose. "I don't want to cause problems. If our Bond is going to make it difficult for you to be part of a team I'm on, then I'll inform Director Fury that I have to recuse myself."

"You don't have to do that," Clint said automatically. They'd been building a good team, and if nothing else, today's op had proven that Coulson could carry his own weight. (Just like the tense set of Coulson's jaw was proving that he wanted this connection as little as Clint did. Which was ... fine. Convenient, even.) "I just need some time to adjust."

"Take all the time you need. And if there's anything you need me to --"

 _I need you to touch me._ The thought burst out with such intensity that Clint was almost surprised to find that he hadn't opened his mouth, hadn't vocalized it. "No," he said instead. "Nothing."

Then Clint pushed himself from the table, stood up, turned around, and walked to the door. Each step felt like lifting too-heavy weights, like drawing the string of a longbow: straining with an effort that felt unbearable, and glowing with the triumph that he could do it anyway. He could walk away.

He could walk away, and the only way to prove it was by doing it. So he did.

 

...

 

Coulson brought cinnamon chip scones to their sixth op, and maple-oatmeal scones to their seventh. He avoided touching Clint, and he avoided personal conversation. In short, he acted exactly as he had before the whole Bonding business.

Clint was grateful.

Clint was also lonely as fuck.

 

...

 

Their eighth op (glazed orange scones, the best yet) involved Clint sitting for a very long time on a very boring rooftop. He tried to maintain radio silence at first, but frankly, even if the target did walk out while Clint was talking, he wasn't going to hear anything from a full kilometer away.

"I had these awesome scones once," he said at last, after an unbearably quiet fifteen minutes. The silence in response told him that Coulson might not be encouraging him, but he wasn't going to stop him. "They had pecans in them, but they weren't regular pecans -- they'd been candied or sugar-roasted or something, so they had these crunchy brown sugar clusters around them. Fuck, but they were good."

Silence.

"So do you make those scones yourself? Natasha thinks that you just know a secret bakery that makes the best scones ever, but my bet's that you totally make a big production out of it, frilly apron and all."

Silence. Then, in a tone of stifled amusement, " _My apron isn't frilly._ "

"Fabulous, I know what to get you this Christmas. Which would you prefer -- a pink cupcakes print, or a nice lavender check?"

" _Is Door Three a gun to the head? Because that's sounding --_ " A pause. " _Hawkeye, the target's on the move indoors. Outdoor ETA is under two minutes._ "

"Copy," Clint said, his full attention focused back on the scope. Even so, he couldn't suppress the small smile curling its way up his lips.

 

...

 

The scones at their next mission briefing had clusters of caramelized pecans in them, cinnamon sugar on top, and whipped honey butter on the side. Clint tried to suppress his moans of pleasure at first, then gave up entirely once the briefing had finished. "These are _amazing_ ," he said, mouth full of scone crumbs and not even caring.

Coulson's cheeks turned a shade pinker. "I'm, ah, glad they live up to your memories."

Across the room, gathering up her things, Natasha raised a single eyebrow, but she didn't say a word.

 

...

 

The night before their next mission briefing, Clint had sprawled on his couch for a quality evening of pizza, cheap beer, and _Dog Cops_ , when his doorbell rang. He paused his TiVo, set down his can of PBR, and started calculating which of the neighbors he could trust to go easy on the pizza, if he offered to share.

A man in a suit stood in his doorway. He looked familiar -- one of the spooks from SHIELD, maybe? -- and his face bore an oddly apologetic expression. "Who are --" Clint began, and the spook interrupted with a single word: " _Reverie._ "

\-- and Clint remembered.

Phil Coulson stood in his doorway. His tie had been loosened, his eyes looked tired, and he bore a platter of brownies. "Mind if I --?" he gestured into the apartment.

Clint, with some reluctance, let him in. He snagged a brownie as Coulson walked past, took a bite, and whimpered in pleasure. The fudgy, buttery, chocolatey bite dissolved on his tongue, leaving pure bliss behind. "Whatever you want, it's yours," he said fervently, then stopped and shifted awkwardly in place. Because, yeah, thanks to the Bond, it _was_.

Coulson seemed to pick up on his hesitance and ignored the comment, setting down the brownies on top of the pizza box and turning to face Clint. "I wanted to talk to you about tomorrow's mission, without everyone else around."

"Shoot," Clint said. He returned to the couch, but sat down more carefully, leaving enough room for Coulson to sit down without touching him. A moment later, Coulson followed.

"I'll give you fuller details tomorrow, but here's the relevant part. We'll need two of our operatives to infiltrate a yacht party off the coast of Rio de Janeiro. It's not _crucial_ that the two act Bonded, but the dress code is quite casual, so plenty of inadvertent physical touch will be necessary to maintain cover, regardless." Coulson tilted his head, just slightly. He'd met Clint's eyes only briefly, and was currently scanning the room. "I'd planned to ask you and Ms. Romanova to play the roles, but I wanted to touch base with you first. I'm happy to take your place, if you prefer."

Clint ignored his first instinct -- the macho assertion that of _course_ he could carry out the mission -- because yeah, Coulson knew he could, and he knew that wasn't the question. He tried to visualize the scene: Natasha in a bikini and wrap, him in a polo and shorts, jostling elbows, nudging knees. They might not have to act Bonded, but Clint knew that it'd help avoid attracting attention if they did. He could do it, too. He just didn't like the thought of being exposed like that, of pretending to feel things that weren't there. Now that he knew the real experience, anything else felt like a sickening parody.

So then he imagined the alternative: Coulson at Natasha's side. He'd look great in a polo shirt, Clint bet; there had to be solid muscle on those strong arms. And they'd cuddle each other and lace their fingers together, smiling secret smiles, and Clint would wait on the sidelines feeling like a coward.

Clint shook away the mental image, took a breath, and decided to say something really, really stupid. "I could do it with you," he said.

"You -- what?" Coulson's hands had been restless against the couch's surface, but they went utterly still.

"I could go with you to the party," Clint repeated, ignoring the part of his brain screaming what a terrible idea that would be. "Then we wouldn't have to be faking the Bond." He shrugged and forced a nervous laugh. "Might as well get some benefit out of the thing."

"And that's what you want to do?" Coulson asked, very carefully.

Clint shrugged again. "Better than the alternatives." He grabbed another brownie and took a big bite, focusing on the rich flavor instead of the churning nervous-eager-panic rush in his gut.

"Okay," Coulson said.

"That's it? 'Okay'?"

"Okay, we'll plan to do it that way. But if we do ..." Coulson's voice trailed off. "I don't mean to take liberties. But we should really be more used to each other's touch. Both of us were virtually incapacitated by it last time, and we'll be no good in the field like that."

"That makes sense," Clint said, slow and reluctant, and he ruthlessly silenced the part of him that cried for joy at the prospect of touching Coulson's skin again. "So, I guess we should --?"

"We should," Coulson agreed. He laid his hand on the couch, extended just close enough for Clint to touch it if he chose.

With slow, careful movements, like learning the heft and balance of a new weapon, Clint placed his palm on top of Coulson's.

Coulson's touch felt like drowning, and it felt like breathing pure oxygen, all tangled up in one, and Clint never wanted to stop.

"Fuck," he exhaled, but he didn't move, not even an inch. If he started moving, then he'd want to touch Coulson more; he'd want to chase every inch of skin and rub up against it like a cat. But he could hold still. He was a sniper, after all.

Then Clint managed to catch Coulson's eyes, and they took his breath away. Those eyes weren't boring. They were anything but boring: wide, dark, hungry, possessive. Coulson watched Clint like he wanted to consume him, like he'd never wanted anything more in his life, and the worst part was that Clint yearned to be consumed.

If he moved right now, Clint knew, he'd be finished.

He didn't move.

Minutes passed. The ebbing waves of pleasure didn't disappear, but they became more predictable, easier to surf instead of drowning. Clint focused on breathing with them, on letting the intense awareness of Coulson's body become a mere background hum in his mind. He tried not to meet Coulson's eyes again.

Eventually, somehow, the tension became bearable. Only when he was certain of it did Clint pull away, the loss of connection sharp and instantly aching. "We'll be fine," he said, and he infused his voice with all the confidence he could muster.

Coulson didn't respond, but he stood up and walked straight for the door. His steps were brisk, with a hint of nervous energy. As he stepped out into the hallway, he glanced backward. "Keep the brownies."

 

...

 

The next morning brought lemon-poppy scones and a supremely uncomfortable briefing. Coulson explained the plan to the team, minus the minor detail that he and Clint _were_ the Bondmates they'd be posing as. Natasha kept casting Clint worried looks. Clint ate scones, spoke as little as possible, and tried to persuade himself that Coulson wasn't watching him lick his lips.

Before he knew it, the briefing was over, and they were headed for Rio.

Clint and Phil's role was simple. All they had to do was infiltrate the party that the mark was hosting on his yacht, then ensure that he didn't go back to his cabin for long enough that Natasha could slip in and retrieve some very sensitive data.

Part one succeeded without a hitch. Clint and Coulson wandered onto the boat, hand-in-hand, with cheap rum on their breath and a swagger to their step. They flashed invitations that Clint had palmed from another pair of guests in line. Whenever anyone asked them how they knew the host, they turned to each other, snickered like kids with a secret, and confided that they'd met this guy at a bar last night, and he said that he was going to this party, and it was _the_ place to be.

The weird part, to Clint, was how easy it all felt. He'd expected Coulson's touch to be a distraction, but it only seemed to amplify their mutual focus on the mission. Somehow, knowing that he had Coulson at his side, supporting him, only made Clint more confident that they'd work their way through any obstacles.

Then they caught the eye of their target, one Roberto Cruz, and Coulson murmured into his mic for Natasha to begin infiltration. He rubbed Clint's palm with his thumb as Cruz sauntered over, the touch strangely soothing.

Cruz had a classically handsome face, a wide smile, and an openly assessing gaze. "Now, I _know_ I would've remembered meeting you gentlemen before. Stowaways, I take it?"

Clint bit his lip and looked at Coulson, giving a half-embarrassed laugh. "Well, we, uh --"

"Aw, I'm kidding." Cruz slapped them both on the shoulder, one with each hand, and laughed throatily. "We get folks like you all the time, and as long as the eye candy's good ..." He winked, then started to guide them toward the nearest bar. "Come on, you're not drunk enough. Let's fix that."

Clint shot Coulson a questioning glance, but he kept a smile -- half flattered, half nervous -- on his face, and he wrapped his fingers more tightly around Coulson's. Just to maintain cover, he told himself.

Meanwhile, he processed the new information. He and Coulson might be reasonably good-looking, but they hardly stood out in the crowd of beautiful people, all tanned cleavage and waxed chests. That left two possibilities: either Cruz was onto them, and trying to isolate them to eliminate them, or Cruz was a Bond-seeker. The kink wasn't uncommon; lots of people with a certain flavor of voyeurism loved to play the third to Bonded couples, finding their emotional intimacy a draw rather than a turn-off. And genuinely Bonded young couples were a rare enough find that Cruz might just be excited at the prospect of fresh meat.

They reached the bar, and Cruz turned to the other two with a grin. "So, what's your pleasure? I know they only stock the open bar with cheap crap, but if you want something a little nicer, I can send someone down below for the good stuff."

Coulson shrugged, his eyes sparkling with a carefree daring that Clint wished he knew how to elicit outside an op. "We're not picky. Two caipirinhas, please?"

"Make that three," Cruz said to the bartender. Clint watched her mix them, checking that the same ingredients went into all three glasses, and tried not to startle too much when he felt Coulson's hand rest at the small of his back, then burrow under the hem of his shirt to stroke idly at the skin. The light caresses sent waves of pleasure rippling through Clint and pooling in his cock, and he had to fight not to curl back into the touch, cat-like. Coulson was trying to bait Cruz, he knew, but fuck if Clint didn't feel like the one being enticed.

Cruz eyed the two of them hungrily as the bartender handed over their glasses. "You're newly Bonded, aren't you?" he asked, throwing back a careless gulp of his cocktail. "I have an eye for these things."

Clint sipped his own drink and tried not to grimace; the concoction was so sweet that he could feel the sugar grains on his tongue. "Yeah," he said, letting the honesty of his own nervousness slip into his tone. "It's all pretty new. And pretty great."

Coulson nodded, drawing Clint closer in to himself. "You read all the descriptions of it, and you think you know what it'll be like, and then -- it's so much better, and so much _more_." The wonder in Coulson's voice sounded so genuine that even Clint wanted to believe it. "Are you Bonded?" Coulson added.

"Sadly, no. I'm still waiting to find that special someone. But," Cruz added with a wink, "that doesn't stop me from having fun while I wait."

"Well, we are here to have fun..." Clint let his voice trail off, then gave Coulson a questioning look, playful but naive. The trick would be to keep Cruz hooked until Natasha could complete her task, without moving things so fast that Cruz took them down to his quarters.

"You haven't been having fun already?" Coulson asked, teasingly.

"You know what I mean," Clint groused. Hoping that it wouldn't make things even more awkward after this mission ended, he leaned in to place a light kiss on Coulson's lips.

Time stopped. Clint honestly could not tell how much time had passed, because all he could feel, all he could think about, was the brush of Coulson's lips against his own. He could taste the lime and cachaça on Coulson's breath, could feel the wet warmth of his mouth, and literally the only thing that Clint wanted was to slide his tongue deeper, press his body flush against Coulson's, and kiss him breathless.

"Wow," Cruz said, his voice finally tugging Clint back to reality. When Clint forced himself to pull away, Coulson watched him, raw and vulnerable as Clint himself felt. "You two look beautiful together."

"We, uh," Clint started, then coughed, trying to clear and calm his voice. "Thanks. I'm really lucky."

The worst part was that even as he said the words, he meant them.

"So," Cruz said, eyeing the two of them. "You two ever think about inviting other people to the party? See, my parties are _legendary_ , and if you're interested..."

Clint let his mouth curve into an interested smile. "I don't think he's talking about a boat party any more, babe."

"You always were the smart one," Coulson said dryly. He turned to face Clint directly, talking in a confidential tone just barely loud enough for Cruz to overhear. "Look, I know we talked about trying this out, but are you sure you're ready? I don't need anyone but you to be happy."

The words sank into Clint, unforgettable in their honesty, but he set them aside to revisit later. "Me neither, but it could be fun." He cast a quick look at Cruz. "We don't know this guy that well, though. Could we just, I don't know, take things slow?"

"Anything for you," Coulson said, and he smoothed out the hair on Clint's forehead.

"Slow is fine," Cruz broke in, not even trying to pretend that he hadn't been listening. "If you want, I can just watch at first, let you get comfortable."

"We could do that," Clint said. Then, forestalling the obvious suggestion to take things somewhere more private, he seized Coulson's face and drew him into a deep, wet kiss.

Fuck. If he thought that kissing Coulson before was good, it had nothing on this. The slick thrust of tongues, the harsh little moans that Coulson made into Clint's mouth -- everything felt amplified tenfold. Coulson's hand resumed its place on Clint's spine, kneading his skin and tugging him close, and God, if just kissing felt this mindblowing, Clint couldn't even imagine how it would feel to lie naked against Coulson: utterly exposed, helpless with ecstasy. His body hitched up against Coulson's without conscious effort, rubbing against his hip and feeling a hardness as urgent as his own.

Distantly, Clint could hear the chatter of partygoers, the pleased voice of Cruz urging them on. Distantly, he knew that as soon as Natasha signaled them, they could make their excuses and stop putting on a show. But the signal hadn't come, and that meant that he could -- that they could -- "Please," Clint whispered into Coulson's lips, not even certain what he was asking for, beyond more of everything.

Coulson didn't respond aloud, but he dragged Clint to a nearby wall, never breaking skin contact, and pushed him up against it. Clint felt surrounded by him, but not trapped; Coulson was protecting him from the world, keeping him all for himself. Their hips rutted against each other, and Coulson's hand slid down from the small of Clint's back, teasing under the waistband of his pants and down the cleft of his ass. Everywhere that Coulson touched was fire and need.

They had a party going on around them and a drug lord watching them, and Clint didn't care. "'M gonna --" he groaned, and Coulson didn't let up the grind of his hips, the proprietary strokes over Clint's ass. He broke his mouth away from Clint's lips, then kissed down his neck, wet and fierce and culminating in a sharp bite at the tender juncture of neck and shoulder, and Clint cried out wordlessly and came in his pants.

They leaned against each other for a long moment, panting. Coulson's lips pressed against Clint's skin, damp and loose, and the sensation sent aftershocks of pleasure skittering down his spine. "Fuck," Clint said, more an exhale than a real word.

"I want to --" Cruz began, just as Natasha's voice came over the comms: " _Got it._ "

Clint and Coulson's eyes met, a quick wordless conversation. Then Clint looked over at Cruz and cast his eyes down, letting his cheeks flush with embarrassment. "Shit, I can't believe we actually did that."

"Nothing to be ashamed of," Cruz said, but Clint shook his head.

"I can't -- I need to think about this. What Carl and I have is special, you know? And I just don't feel good about letting someone else touch him." He stroked Coulson's cheek. "That all right, babe?"

"Whatever you need," Coulson reassured him, and he squeezed Clint's hand. He turned to Cruz. "We'll keep the offer in mind, but I think he needs a little space. We'll find you later, maybe?"

Cruz's eyes flashed dark with disappointment, but Clint was betting that he wouldn't make a scene in the middle of a party, and he was right. "I hope you do change your mind," Cruz said, finally. "I can make things real good for both of you."

"You're very kind," Coulson said, then flashed an awkward smile. "Do you, uh, have restrooms down below? We could use a little cleanup."

"Down the stairs, second left," Cruz smirked.

"Thanks."

Once they'd gone below-deck, it was easy work to slip out of the porthole that Natasha had used, dive down, and swim up into the small submarine waiting for them. The seawater drenching their clothes covered up and washed away any inconvenient reminders of their activities.

Clint wished that the sense-memories could be as easily expunged.

 

...

 

" _Reverie._ "

Coulson stood in Clint's doorway. For once, he wasn't carrying anything, and he had dark shadows under his eyes. "May I come in?" he asked.

Clint hadn't seen him in five days. For five days, he hadn't remembered that he'd found his Bondmate, that he'd kissed him, that he'd come untouched from rubbing up against him. "This can't work," he said, though he stood aside to let Coulson enter.

"I know." Coulson pinched his nose and sighed. "But we need to talk about it."

"We do?"

Coulson closed the door, then stepped forward deliberately and stroked Clint's wrist. A warm pulse of pleasure immediately flooded through Clint, and he gritted his teeth at the sensation. "We do," Coulson said.

"Fine," Clint sighed, and he sprawled out on the couch. "Talk."

Coulson sat down on the edge of the cushion, at the far end of the couch. He looked ahead, eyes lost in the middle distance. "We have two primary problems. One is the situation of our strike force and your memory implants. The other is the fact that, even when you do remember everything pertinent, you don't seem to want this."

"What about the third problem?" Clint asked, and Coulson turned to him with a single blink of surprise.

"What third problem?"

"The problem where you don't want this either."

A very small, very wry smile twisted Coulson's mouth. "Please trust me when I say that that's not the problem."

"Sure," Clint said, disbelieving but letting it slide.

"The first problem is ... difficult but solvable. I can think of a few potential plans to propose to SHIELD. The existence of a true Bond means they'll be flexible."

Clint nodded. Bond Separation had only been listed as a legitimate mental illness in the most recent DSM, but suicide attempts were a frequent enough symptom that most organizations took prevention seriously.

"As for the second problem ..." Coulson's voice trailed off, and he met Clint's eyes. Clint could see weariness and a raw honesty that Coulson rarely revealed. "I know you're not interested in me in that way, and I won't presume friendship, let alone anything more. But I'd be very grateful if you'd be willing to share space and touch every so often. Just as a coworker and teammate."

Clint tilted his head. He took in Coulson's hollow eyes, his exhaustion. He surveyed his empty apartment and the couch big enough for two. He thought about how Coulson wasn't asking for anything at all, just touch. When he started asking for more, when it mattered that Clint's judgment would be compromised -- Clint could pull away then. "Okay," he said at last. "You like _Dog Cops_?"

"Who doesn't?" Coulson said dryly.

Clint extended his hand first this time, and Coulson laid his on top. After skipping back to the start of the episode, Clint stretched his back, settled into the cushions, and tried to focus on the episode, not just the warm pleasure of their shared touch.

(He woke up sometime in the early morning with a crick in his neck from falling asleep sitting up. Their hands still touched, though Coulson had curled his fingers around Clint's during the night. _Everyone looks lovable while they're sleeping,_ Clint told himself, but it didn't matter; he still couldn't quell the surge of affection that Coulson's face inspired.

Clint considered moving to his bed for the night and avoiding further muscle cramps. He stayed exactly where he was.)

 

...

 

During their next op, Clint pulled Hill aside near the end, when all they had left was cleanup. "How do I get SHIELD security clearance?" he asked, without preamble.

She arched an eyebrow. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I don't want to forget everything. Need-to-know details, sure, but not everything. So tell me what hoops I need to jump through to get there."

Her lips twitched. "Obtaining SHIELD security clearance isn't like applying for a motorcycle license at the DMV. You don't just fill out a pile of paperwork and wait to get approved."

 _No shit, lady,_ Clint wanted to say, but he kept his mouth shut and started to turn away. This was a stupid idea, anyway. It wasn't like he wanted to give Coulson more reason to sidle into his life.

"Fortunately," Hill continued, "Agent Coulson has already initiated that process for you. We're in the process of background checks and data collection; we'll let you know when we get to the stage of telepathic screening and blood testing."

"Oh. Okay, then."

Just then, the man in question stepped into the room. He nodded politely at the two of them, then turned to a nearby monitor, but Clint could feel Coulson's presence like a lingering thirst. They hadn't touched at all throughout the op.

After a moment of silence, Hill left the room, presumably to oversee other agents. Clint stepped over to Coulson and stood next to him, but there wasn't an inconspicuous way to touch him; Clint wore his uniform gloves, while Coulson's suit covered everything but his hands and face. The proximity itched at Clint until he let out an annoyed sigh. "New episode of _Dog Cops_ last night. Thank fuck for TiVo, right? I know how I'll be spending my evening."

Coulson twitched in surprise, but he didn't look away from the monitor. "Sounds nice," he said at last. "I hadn't yet decided what I'll be doing." _Message received._

 

...

 

Life continued as it had: with late-night hand-holding, hours at the archery range, avoiding track-suit ninjas, and the occasional interlude of saving the planet. A few weeks in, Fury and Hill started looking at him differently, with a mixture of sympathy and suspicion, and Clint figured it was because Coulson had told them about the Bond.

Eventually, he got called into SHIELD for a delightful day of testing. They extracted blood samples, subjected him to full-body MRIs to search for implants, and sat him down with a very nice man who asked Clint leading questions while sifting through his brain. After that, the man accompanied him to another room, where they asked Clint pointed questions about every poor choice and suspicious blip in his history -- and hoo boy, were there a lot of those.

By the end of the day, Clint didn't even care about his dignity. He texted Coulson, _my place in an hr? ill order pizza_.

Somehow, just the anticipation of sitting next to Coulson on his couch, listening to Coulson snark at the television while his fingers stroked idly at Clint's palm, dissolved the day's mounting frustrations into surmountable sand heaps.

 

...

 

"My parents were bonded," Clint said one evening. They'd been watching _Toddlers and Tiaras_ \-- Coulson had atrocious taste in television, but Clint usually found himself so distracted by his touch that he didn't protest -- when an ad for _Bondless and Boundless_ came on. The reality show took sexy young singles whose best friends had been Bonded, threw them into a mansion with free-flowing alcohol, and filmed them justifying their low standards as "YOLO." Clint hated it, almost as much as he hated the sappy Oxygen biopics of famous Bonded couples.

Coulson nodded without speaking, but he turned his full attention to Clint and gave his fingers a gentle squeeze.

It took a few deep breaths -- shit, Clint had never talked about this to anyone before -- but he finally found the words to continue. "My dad wasn't ... he didn't beat my mom or anything. He loved her just as much as she loved him. But he was the worst kind of asshole, stupid about his money, ready to punch anyone if he thought they were giving him lip. I used to tie myself up in knots, trying to figure out why the Bond picked him for her, when she was so nice, so gentle with everyone." Clint could feel his hand clenching around Coulson's, but the warm buzz of their touching skin was the only thing giving him strength to continue, so he didn't let go.

"I finally figured it out later, after they'd both been dead for years. I'd always thought she was the better one, because she wasn't throwing the punches. But she knew him. She saw him throwing me and Barney across the room, she handed him money that he'd spend at the bar, and she never did a thing to stop him. Because she _loved_ him." He spat out the word, hating the taste of it. "So yeah, they were both made for each other -- like Romeo and Juliet, with everyone dying around them and nobody paying attention to anything but the romantic Bond."

Coulson raised a single eyebrow at the allusion, but Clint knew not to take it seriously. "Fuck you," he grinned, "I got my GED. I read that shit." Then he lapsed into silence for a minute, staring blankly at the television. "The thing about SHIELD's brain implants, the reason I didn't quit long ago, is that they don't change who you are. You might forget something, but at any given moment, you're making your own decisions. The Bond doesn't give you that. That's why I don't trust it."

When Clint had lapsed back into silence for a while, Coulson finally spoke. "You think it was the Bond that made your mother put up with your father?"

Clint laughed, short and bitter. "It picked her for a reason. She was always too nice, too willing to overlook everyone else's problems. But yeah, the Bond made her give all that bullshit forgiveness to him in particular."

"You don't think that people make those stupid mistakes every time they fall in love?"

"I know what you're doing." Clint shot Coulson a look. "It's not that easy. I'm not just gonna have an epiphany and realize that the Bond isn't so bad, that it's just confirming what's already there. 'Giving evolution a boost,' and all that crap. Fact is, I don't want --"

He trailed off, because he couldn't think of an honest way to end that sentence. _I don't want this Bond_ \-- except that the now-familiar warmth of Coulson's skin put lie to that. _I don't want a lover_ \-- but the emptiness of Clint's bed at night ached at him too naggingly to believe it. _I don't want you_ \-- the biggest lie of all.

He wanted Coulson. Weeks later, he still couldn't forget that afternoon on the boat, the rough grind of Coulson's body, the taste of his mouth. Clint wanted, and he was rapidly running out of reasons not to take what Coulson offered.

So he trailed off, and he closed his mouth, and he turned back to the television. Someday soon, he'd stop fighting. But not yet.

 

...

 

Clint got called alone into a meeting at SHIELD the next week. Hill, Coulson, and Fury were positioned around the conference table; a platter of pale scones sat in the center, and Clint snagged one before sitting down, giving Coulson a questioning look.

"Candied ginger and fresh peaches," Coulson said in reply, his tone fond, and something close to a smile glittering in his eyes. Well, someone was in a good mood. Clint took a bite and sighed happily at the crumbly, tart perfection.

"If you're ready to begin," Hill said pointedly, but even she looked amused. "After a thorough review of your background, personality, and associates, you've been formally granted Level 2 SHIELD security clearance. Congratulations."

Clint blinked, then grinned. "That's. Wow. Awesome. So does that mean I get these things out?" He waggled his fingers vaguely toward his own scalp.

"Funny. You're Level 2, with a special clearance for subjects relating to our strike team and your memory implants. That means that at all times you'll be aware of your participation, and you'll retain general memories of the ops, but any specific information above your security level will remain redacted and on a need-to-know basis."

"Hunh." It made sense, much as Clint still didn't like the implants. "So in practice ..."

Coulson spoke up. "Do you remember the moment when we Bonded?"

"Yeah, of course. You grabbed my arm to pull me out of the way of an asshole with a semiautomatic."

"What city were we in?"

Clint opened his mouth, then stopped when his memory blanked entirely. "That's weird."

"That's how things will be, unless and until you work your way up to a considerably higher security clearance." Coulson shrugged ruefully. "It's the best that we can do right now."

"It's fine. I get it." He glanced back at Hill and at Fury, who'd been watching in silence, somehow both glowering and looking amused. "Is there anything else?"

Hill pulled out a thick folder. "Yes, as a matter of fact. You're technically now a SHIELD asset, which comes with a whole host of rules, procedures, and resources. You'll be expected to know and uphold the contents of this packet." Her lips quirked. "I'm certain that Agent Coulson will be happy to answer any questions you have."

"Goddammit, I knew I'd regret this," Clint groaned theatrically, but he took the paperwork anyway.

On the subway ride home, while munching on a leftover scone, he pulled out his cell phone to send Coulson a text. _most of the paperwork is optional, right?_

A few moments later, he got two texts in quick succession. _No._ Then, _We could come up with a reward system for your reading._

 _only if i get to pick the rewards._ Clint hit "send" before realizing two slightly terrifying facts. First, he'd been straight-up flirting with Coulson.

Second, he'd actually been hoping that Coulson would flirt back.

 

...

 

On Clint's next mission with the Avengers -- AIM tried to break into a lab in Queens, tripped an alarm, and turned themselves into neon yellow practice targets for Hawkeye -- he found himself thinking at one point that the whole operation would be running more smoothly with Coulson on the comms.

Then he paused, realized that it was the first time he'd been able to think that, smiled quietly, and went back to loosing arrows.

" _Everything okay up there, Hawkeye?_ " Cap asked over the comm.

"Yep," Clint said, sending a putty arrow directly down the barrel of an AIM machine gun. "Just thinking about my favorite bakery."

The gun backfired, blew up spectacularly, and took out the nearby cluster of AIM combatants. Clint grinned with satisfaction.

 

...

 

The following week, Clint strolled into the Avengers' communal living room, wolfing down a triple-berry scone left over from the prior day's briefing, and found a large group of Avengers waiting for him. Tony and Steve clearly headed the crowd; Tony was trying (and failing) to look serious, while Steve was glowering at Tony out of the corner of his eyes.

"Clint Barton," Tony said very solemnly, "this is an intervention."

He didn't have to fake his look of confusion. "Uh. What?"

"You've been drifting away from us, Hawkeye. You keep going off by yourself, then claiming it's time spent training or patrolling, and we've noticed. So I checked the logs, and it started right around the time that SHIELD called you in for a meeting, a few months ago."

Clint went very still, and he carefully did not look at Natasha. "You're sounding just a little paranoid, Stark."

"It's not paranoia if you're actually hiding something, kiddo. At first I thought you were having a scandalous cradle-robbing affair with the Bishop girl, but she's been busy with her own hero club. So then I thought SHIELD might have dragged you into something, so I did a little, ah, investigative research on their servers." Steve looked pointedly unimpressed but unsurprised.

"And?" Clint prompted. He wasn't sure if his implants would even let him talk about SHIELD's team, but the least he could do was drag it out of Tony as slowly as he could.

"And, turns out that SHIELD keeps all their juicy files on isolated servers," Tony concluded. "It's totally inconsiderate to innocent information-seekers like yours-truly. But! I searched the files I _could_ access for mentions of your name, and I found one tiny little mention."

"Get to the point, Tony," Steve said.

"I'm getting there. See, basic HR benefits aren't encrypted nearly as securely as data about assets. And a couple of months ago, an employee named Phillip J. Coulson filed a form registering you as his next-of-kin." Tony's voice grew increasingly gleeful. "'Relationship: Bondmate.' Ringing any bells now?"

"I can explain."

"Yeah, yeah," Tony waved his hand. "The Avengers are intimidating and you wanted to spare him; Philly-boy's not nearly as handsome as me, and you didn't want him to feel inadequate; whatever. Bring your new better half by, or we'll have to start spending Avengers resources to stalk him ourselves, and you know Cap hates inefficiency."

"What Tony's trying to say," Steve broke in, "is that he's your Bondmate, and that makes him part of the Avengers family. We'd like to get to know him. Anyone good enough to be Bonded with you is someone I'd be honored to meet."

Clint's mouth felt dry. "I'll, uh, pass that along."

"But he's good to you, right?" Steve made a weirdly effective mother hen.

Thinking over the way Coulson watched his back in the field, the way he always knew when not to push, and the infinitely gentle way his fingers wrapped around Clint's calluses, Clint couldn't do anything but nod. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

 

...

 

He passed the conversation along as promised, relaying it to Coulson during their next pizza-and-crap-TV night. He'd expected Coulson to look amused. He most definitely hadn't expected the flustered, wide-eyed blushing. "Captain America really said that?" Coulson said at last. "He said I was part of his family?"

Clint rolled his eyes. "I'll bring you by sometime when he's wandering around half-awake in boxers and a wifebeater. The mystique fades pretty fast." Then he caught the deepening crimson in Coulson's cheeks. _Oh._ "Or, you know, not. Look, I don't have to bring you around; I can deflect, or say that it was an error with the paperwork."

Coulson's expression took on an amused gleam. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous. Don't worry; you're still my favorite superhero."

"I'm not a superhero. And I'm not jealous."

"Hah. I'll grant you the latter, if it makes you feel better, but you're not getting away with the former." Coulson smiled, wry and distant, and his fingers relaxed comfortably around Clint's. "You were my favorite Avenger, long before we first met. All the others, even Captain America, had some sort of external boost, something that gave them the ability to be superhuman. But you, you _made_ yourself superhuman by sheer pig-headed perseverance. You're the most extraordinary of them all."

"Now you're just flattering me."

Coulson shook his head. "I'm really not."

A comfortable silence filled the space between them, and Clint tried to figure out an appropriate response. Then he paused. "Hold on. You listed me as your next-of-kin?"

"Well, I was hoping to tell you about it differently, but ... yes."

"Why?"

"Do you want the pragmatic answer, or the real answer?" Coulson wasn't meeting Clint's eyes, and his body had a hesitant tension to it.

Clint just raised his eyebrows. "Let's try both."

"The pragmatic answer: you made more sense than the alternatives. I haven't dated in a long time, and my immediate family thinks I'm still doing top-secret work for the Rangers abroad. Marcus -- ah, Nick -- used to be my next-of-kin, and he strongly suggested that I stop listing him."

"Really? What happened?"

A hint of Coulson's earlier blush returned. "You did. When he heard that we were Bonded, he told me to, and I quote, 'get my head out of my ass and stop using him as an excuse to avoid intimacy.'"

Clint frowned slightly. "Since when was he _your_ excuse? I thought you were just waiting for me to change my mind."

"I'm a spy, Clint," Coulson said patiently. "And your relationship history indicated that you prefer assertive, sexually confident partners. I've let things stay effectively static for months. If I'd wanted to move forward, I'd be doing more than holding your hand."

"Oh." The slow pace was a little weird, now that Clint thought about it. In a sudden rush, he imagined all the things that Coulson could have been doing instead: trailing his fingertips up Clint's underarm, suggesting innocent hugs that would end with a teasing brush of lips on neck, reaching over him for the remote and casually brushing across the fly of Clint's pants. The visions felt like the enticing rush of a drug hit, and a pang of regret followed in their wake. "So why didn't you?"

"Because you were already sharing so much with me, more than I'd ever expected." Coulson spoke his words carefully: low, private. "You have no idea how much is at stake for me -- no idea how much you mean. If I pushed things forward, no matter how carefully, I'd still risk losing you, and I didn't dare to take that risk. I won't make you uncomfortable, no matter what I want for myself."

Somehow, the two of them had turned to face each other fully, still holding hands. Clint drew a long, tense breath, watching Coulson watch his exhale. "So you thought it would make more sense for me to find out from SHIELD when you died?" He tried for a smile.

Coulson's answering smile was wry. "Two Silver Stars for valor, and I'm still a coward sometimes."

Clint paused. The thing he'd learned as Hawkeye was this: being a good marksman meant aiming your shots carefully, calculating the impact of wind and distance, perfecting your stance with the weapon in your hands. But being a great marksman meant practicing all those things again and again and again, until your brain factored them all in without conscious thought, until you could twist midair while falling off a building and know precisely when to loose your arrow at the target. The times when the Avengers needed him the most, he didn't have time to calculate and center himself. He had to act, just act, and have faith that the hours he'd spent in practice would support his actions.

Clint had been practicing with Coulson for months. He'd learned that he could trust the other man -- trust him with his back in a firefight, and trust him with his secrets. They'd learned the shape of each other's comfort zones, and they'd learned the places where those zones could nestle and intermesh and let them both relax. Clint had learned Coulson's smile and his expressive eyes and the grooves of his fingertips, and he'd learned how sparingly Coulson trusted those things to anyone else. They'd practiced being friends, partners, and lovers.

Now he had to act.

So Clint leaned forward, slow but deliberate, and pressed his lips against Coulson's. A quiet whimper hummed up Coulson's throat, but all he did was lean into the kiss, letting them both adjust to the heady pleasure of lips on Bonded lips. "You --" Coulson murmured, then pulled his lips away a few millimeters to speak, "you should know that if we continue this, I'll find it very difficult to stop." _But I still would, if I had to,_ went unsaid.

Clint was done with words. He placed his palm against Coulson's cheek, feeling the heat-flushed skin and end-of-day stubble, and savored the warm hum of pleasure, the way that every new inch of skin contact heightened the blissful buzz building between them. "C'mere," he said, and resumed the kiss. This time, he teased Coulson's lips apart, tasting him, and God, the shock of tongue on tongue, the way that slick warmth amplified everything, Clint could lose himself in it. Utterly lost.

Coulson's hands slid to Clint's back, and the strong curve of his fingers plunged Clint back to that yacht in Rio and the way that, just for a few moments, Coulson had been his. He shuddered and leaned closer into Coulson, chest pressed to chest, wanting desperately to see and feel the other man's body without the barrier of fabric. "Can I --" he asked, tugging at Coulson's shirt.

"Only if I can too," Coulson said, his voice a soft groan, and at Clint's nod, he began to pull his t-shirt up and off.

Coulson's own shirt, buttoned and well-fitted, took more effort, but soon enough, Clint had it untucked and off, followed quickly by his undershirt. Part of him wanted to lean back in, to rub like a cat against that expanse of bare skin, but he wanted even more to remember this. Coulson's body was a labyrinth rich with secrets, and Clint wanted to learn them all.

So he reached forward and traced the paths of Coulson's chest, feeling the textures of warm skin and curling hair. He wasn't even aiming for erogenous zones, but he could see Coulson shuddering visibly with every movement, arching into Clint's hand. Clint stroked down between Coulson's pecs, then over his abdomen; in the stillness and focus of the moment, he felt like he could take in and memorize every layer of Coulson, ribs and muscle and taut skin. The constant skin contact of the Bond made Clint feel like he was painting Coulson's body in light, his hand radiating with warmth.

Soon, Clint's palm trailed lower still, past the flat plane of Coulson's stomach and into the hollows where his hips dipped below his waistband. Clint stroked down those hollows and over the trail of fuzz tempting him below, and Coulson's hips bucked in response, echoed by a harsh gasp. "God. I. Barton -- _Clint_. Let me touch you too, please."

"Anything," Clint replied, and in that moment, he meant it.

Coulson placed his palm on Clint's chest, right above his heart, and rested it there for a moment. Suddenly Clint understood why Coulson had been so undone by his touch; his hand felt incredible, the heady pulse of intimacy magnified by the fact that Coulson was touching sensitive skin, skin that Clint had tried for so long to keep safely concealed. Coulson's hand marked Clint like a burning brand, and then he began to stroke down Clint's chest, and Clint couldn't stop his groan of pleasure.

Coulson's touches seemed to last forever, but eventually he slid his hand to Clint's bare back and tugged him close for another urgent kiss. "If this is going in the direction I'd like to think it is, shall we move to the bedroom?" he asked, and his voice had a needy rasp to it.

"Yeah," Clint nodded instantly, then winced. "It's, uh, kind of a mess. I didn't expect ... this."

Coulson just shrugged. "If you think that I'll be paying attention to anything but you, then I haven't been clear enough about my intentions." 

"And what, exactly, are those intentions?"

Their eyes met, and Coulson's never wavered. "I plan to strip you, touch every inch of you, learn the taste of your cock, and then let you fuck me until both of us come. Is that acceptable?"

A full body shudder pulsed through Clint. He'd never felt so turned on in his life, but he put a cocky smile on his face. "You sound like you've spent lots of time planning this out."

Coulson's laugh was helpless. "You have no idea."

The honesty behind Coulson's response caught Clint's breath. He felt suddenly inadequate, despite the reassuring ebb of the Bond between them, and paused. All along, he'd been afraid that the Bond would give him a raw deal, persuade him to overlook problems that needed to be taken seriously. Only now did he consider that the opposite might be the case: that capable, stable, in-control Coulson was putting all his faith in a habitual fuck-up like Clint, and maybe that wasn't the best choice for him.

The Bond wasn't supposed to create a psychic link, despite the urban legends, but Coulson seemed to have read Clint's mind. "I'm not expecting miracles and rainbows," he said, rubbing his thumb over the base of Clint's spine. "I just want the opportunity to touch you and make you feel good. Would you give that to me?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Okay." And he guided him to the bedroom, hand in hand.

Clint's bedroom _was_ a mess, he hadn't lied, but his bed was both clear and spacious. He undid his jeans as he walked, kicking them off with more haste than grace, but leaving his boxers in place for the moment. Coulson followed his example, removing slacks and socks and leaving his lean body clad only in form-fitting dark briefs. Clint let his eyes wander Coulson greedily, then reached out to tug him to the bed.

They both climbed on, and Clint scooted backwards to the head. Coulson followed and guided him gently downward, until he could straddle Clint's legs and bracket Clint with his arms. Then, after a quick, searching kiss, he smiled wickedly. "I believe I said something about stripping you, and I'd hate to leave you hanging." He slid down Clint's body, so that their clothed dicks brushed for the briefest of moments. Then, while Coulson bent his mouth to Clint's neck, tonguing and nibbling at the skin in a whirlwind of wet, sharp pleasure, he moved his hands lower still, to hook under the band of Clint's boxers.

Slowly, carefully, Coulson tugged the boxers downward, letting Clint's cock loose, then immediately shimmied down to recapture it with his own mouth. He didn't even hesitate -- just swallowed it down, and the sudden hit of warmth and slickness and pressure, all resonating with the Bond's intoxicating song, almost had Clint coming on the spot.

"Jesus Christ, Coulson, you could -- ah -- warn a guy." He was trying his best not to gag Coulson by thrusting too hard, but God, the tight heat of his mouth felt like the best kind of heaven, like all the sex Clint had ever had was a wan shadow of this moment.

Coulson slid off wetly, his lips gleaming and red. "'Phil.' I think that if my mouth is on your dick, you can use my first name."

Clint laughed. "Okay. Phil. If I call you that, will you go back to -- oh fuck yes," he sighed happily, as _Phil_ returned to his task.

Phil lavished his attention on Clint's cock, alternating between deep suction and slow, wet licks. Clint let his hands wander through Phil's hair, across his shoulders, over his cheeks, anywhere that he could maintain skin contact while his hips bucked and he choked out groans and incoherent pleas.

Clint wasn't young or inexperienced, but his self-control had never faced a challenge so overpowering as Phil Coulson's mouth. After a few more minutes, he felt himself trembling with the effort of holding back release, and he finally had to blurt out, "Stop!" Phil immediately slid off and looked up in concern. "I mean. That's really good. Just, a little too good, if you want me participating for the next part, you know?"

"Right," Phil said, and his throat had a hint of hoarseness, and his pupils were wide and dark. "The next part." The memory of what Phil had suggested earlier hovered between them. "Do you have supplies around?"

Clint nodded, then leaned over to grab his bedside bottle of lube (which had been seeing rather frequent use of late) and dig out a box of condoms. He glanced at the top condom automatically and froze. "Shit. These are seriously expired. I, uh, haven't had much use for them in a while."

Phil nodded, and his face slipped into what Clint liked to call "efficient super-spy mode": assessing the problem and formulating the most effective response. He hesitated for a breath before speaking, though. "I've seen your medical results, I'm tested on a regular basis, and there isn't anyone else for either of us. So while I'm happy to wait, we could just go without."

Clint's first instincts made him want to turn down the idea, but then he thought about it. Coulson was one of the most thoughtful, careful people he knew; if there were any risk of something slipping past SHIELD medical screenings, he'd know about it. Then Clint _really_ thought about it -- about burying himself inside his Bondmate and feeling every inch of him, without a single barrier -- and he forced back a helpless whimper. "Yes. Just, yes."

A hint of a smile graced Phil's mouth at Clint's eager tone, but he simply reached for the lube. "Then let me --"

"Nope," Clint interrupted him lightly. "I've got this." He began to pull Phil's briefs off, pausing only briefly to swipe his tongue over one of Phil's nipples, just to elicit a satisfying gasp. Once Phil was nude, Clint grabbed one of the pillows from the head of the bed and brought it near Phil's hips. "Do you mind --" he gestured, then explained, "I just really want to see your face while I'm opening you up."

"That works," Phil said, sounding a little breathless, and he positioned himself on his back, his ass raised on the pillow for better access. Spread out over Clint's bed, his muscles almost humming with urgency, he looked -- not beautiful, perhaps, but right, like a puzzle piece clicking into position in Clint's life. Like he belonged and always would.

Clint slicked up a couple of fingers, giving the lube a few moments to warm to his skin, before he leaned forward and licked across the tip of Phil's cock. Mimicking the slow swipe of his tongue, he stroked two slippery fingers over Phil's entrance, soothing and mapping out the puckered skin. The wet coating of lube only seemed to amplify the Bond-induced endorphin pulses in Clint's fingertips.

Phil's thighs were spread apart and trembling with the effort to stay still. "You don't have to tease," he gasped.

Clint just grinned. "Have to? Nah. But want to? Absolutely." With that, he slipped one fingertip into Phil, just as he ducked his head down to suck his cock into his mouth. Phil's resulting cry sounded halfway between a shout and a sob.

While his tongue lapped at Phil's length, Clint pressed his finger deeper, seeking out Phil's prostate. When Phil jerked upward, sending a small burst of salty pre-cum over Clint's tongue, he knew he'd found it.

Clint had always thought that the person getting fingered was the one having all the fun, but as he worked his digit in and out of Phil, rubbing his sweet spot as he went, the smooth pressure of Phil's ass enveloped Clint's finger, and the Bond made it feel swathed in bliss. He added a second finger, still lavishing attention on Phil's cock, and a third when two slid easily.

Then, with three fingers buried knuckle-deep inside Phil, he paused and raised his head. Phil's eyes were fluttering half-open, his breath coming in pants, and he wore the most raw and vulnerable expression that Clint had ever seen. "Ready?" Clint asked, and Phil just nodded.

Clint slicked himself up, guided himself to Phil's entrance, and pressed in -- just a fraction of an inch, just enough to open him up. But it was enough to send Phil arching backward, hands scrabbling on the covers and finally finding a grip on Clint's own arms. "More, please," Phil said, and Clint gave it to him.

He leaned forward as he pressed inward, thanking his acrobatic training, until he was fully buried inside Phil and kissing him fiercely on the lips. The loop of their bodies formed an ouroboros, devouring and devoured, and Phil's tongue pushed into Clint's mouth even as Clint fucked into Phil. Clint felt coherent thought dissolving into pure sensation: the slick grip of Phil's body around his cock, Phil's hands so tight around Clint's arms that they verged on pain, the insistent length of Phil's dick between their bodies, the taste of Phil's mouth, the sharp edge of his teeth on Clint's lips. Through it all, the Bond coursed through Clint, fierce as a tidal current and sweet as chestnut honey.

Clint's thrusts felt less like pushing into Phil and more like being tugged deeper and deeper in. He shifted his weight onto one arm and reached down with the other, starting to stroke Phil's cock, but Phil shook his head half-deliriously. "No," he panted. "I want -- want this to last, want to come just from this."

It was the hottest thing that Clint had ever seen.

Lasting wasn't going to be an issue for much longer, whatever Clint did. He'd tried to pace his strokes, to savor the sensation of skin pressed so tight against Coulson that the Bond seemed to dissolve any separation between them, but the sight of Phil's normally composed face, rapt with sheer uncontrolled ecstasy, had him on the verge of tumbling over the edge.

When he couldn't stave it off any longer, he said in a swift gasp, "I'm gonna --"

"Do it," Phil urged, and Clint stopped trying to resist the inevitable. Orgasm flowed through him and pulsed out of his dick, as if the Bond had become tangible from sheer weight of wanting, and the slide of Phil's dick between their stomachs while Clint pounded into him was enough to push him to his own release. Clint felt the hot spurts splash between them and sobbed with pleasure and relief.

For that long, soaring moment, all he could think was, _I'm never letting go again._

 

...

 

Some people said that they could sense their Bondmate's presence, even beyond range of physical sight or touch. Clint had never put much stock in that brand of romanticism, but when he opened his eyes the following morning, the empty space in his bed didn't worry him. He missed Phil's presence, yes, but the room still felt warm with memories from the night before, and his Bond thrummed, alive but quiescent, in his chest.

Clint stretched pleasantly and rolled out of bed, following a faint clank emanating from the kitchen. He found Phil in his undershirt and slacks, stirring together ingredients that Clint definitely hadn't had in his pantry.

Phil looked up and smiled, looking relaxed and in his element, miles distant from the arrogant spook who'd first impressed Clint. "I stopped by the bodega on the corner for some supplies."

"What're you making?"

The smile widened to a grin. "I've never baked you my original scone recipe, the one that meant Sunday mornings and watching my dad grumble at the newspaper over breakfast. Mom called them her 'lucky scones' -- probably because she was lucky if I left her enough chocolate to make a batch. They're just chocolate chip scones, but they taste like home to me."

"So you're baking them because you got lucky?" Clint couldn't resist asking.

Phil rolled his eyes. "I'm baking them because I know I _am_ lucky. And because I suppose I wanted to impress you into offering a repeat performance."

"Heh," Clint said. From the sly smile on Phil's lips, he knew that neither of them had any doubt that a repeat performance would be happening, and soon. Then he remembered that he was allowed to touch Phil now, so he rested his palm in the small of Phil's back for a moment, burrowing under his waistband to seek out Bond-warm skin.

"I can make scrambled eggs to go with," Clint added after a minute of watching Phil stir and knead lightly. He knew he wasn't the kind of cook Phil was, but he had a few dishes down pat.

"I'd love that," Phil said. (The word _love_ hung in the air for a moment, like the apex of an arrow loosed to the sun, but Clint didn't comment on it.)

When Clint gathered together his supplies and began, Phil raised one critical eyebrow. "You're just cracking eggs straight into a cold, ungreased skillet?"

A stab of self-doubt pierced Clint. Phil had more refined tastes than him, more cooking experience, and his disapproval cut like a scalpel at Clint's confidence. His memories flashed back to all the times he'd heard that tone in his father's voice, and all the times his mother had meekly backed down, kept the peace, offered concession after concession until she had nothing left.

 _You're not her,_ Clint told himself. _You're a fucking Avenger._ Already flinching in anticipation of the inevitable push-back, he forced his face into a fuck-you smirk. "Just wait 'til you try them. My most skeptical guests have swooned." Then he waited for Phil to respond -- a sigh of exasperation, a twitch of anger, something even sharper.

Phil just cocked his eyebrow higher, a twitch of amusement on his lips. "Okay. You'll have to show me your method, then." He turned back to the dough he was scooping onto a lined cookie sheet.

The spatula stilled in Clint's fingers. _That's it?_ , he wanted to ask. Then a bark of laughter escaped him: he'd done it. Even after consummating their Bond, he'd pushed back against Phil, and nothing bad had happened.

When Clint glanced over, still chuckling with triumph, Phil was looking at him questioningly. Clint just shook his head and tugged Phil in for a kiss, tasting the faint dusting of flour that had settled on Phil's lips. "It's nothing, I just. Things are going to be okay. That's all."

"Good enough for me," Phil said.

"Yeah." Clint smiled, helpless and happy. "Me too."

 

(the end.)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Vamp](http://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/) for her usual superb betaing help, to all of #Feelschat for being tireless cheerleaders of "Soulmates and Scones," and to A. for first teaching me that scones meant love.
> 
> The sociology of the gloves is borrowed with permission from [Just a Little Touch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/225201/chapters/340914), a fabulous Inception fic. (However, this fic does not include the dom/sub aspects of that universe.)
> 
> For those who're curious, here are links to [Momma Coulson's Lucky Scones](http://teatrousers.tumblr.com/post/43034834138/from-the-marvel-ar-app-of-note-notthe-scones-he) and [Clint's scrambled egg technique](http://beekman1802.com/recipes/joshs-lazy-scrambled-eggs/). I highly recommend both!
> 
> Written to fulfill the "soul bonding/soulmates" square for Trope Bingo.


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